


for service and devotion

by katiesaygo



Series: stoned stories and tipsy tales [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Established Relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 04:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20129518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiesaygo/pseuds/katiesaygo
Summary: “Please tell me you did not just put in the TurboChef what I think you put in the TurboChef.”Kira gets barely a glimspe before Erica shuts the door of the oven, but it's enough.





	for service and devotion

**Author's Note:**

> for the loml's prompt _ Erica/Kira, baking edibles_  
over at [crossfaded femslash comment ficathon, come join in!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19882306)
> 
> also for the prompt _universe_ on the [100 Fandom](https://100fandoms.dreamwidth.org/) challenge card

“Please tell me you did not just put in the TurboChef what I think you put in the TurboChef.”

Kira gets barely a glimpse before Erica shuts the door of the oven, but it's enough.

“_Erica_,” she whispers, taking a quick step closer and trying to cooly, casually, make sure there's no one else in the bakery's front of house.

It's Monday night—an hour before closing—which of course means there's nothing and no one to overhear them but the summer flies and leaves swirling inside from the draft of the open door.

Great.

She could not wait to sweep all that shit up later.

“Relaaax, babe,” Erica's voice snaps her back from the misery of future-cleaning.

She watches Erica deftly avoid the oven's hot grill and scoot the warmed blondie into her pastry bag.

No tongs necessary.

Which—ok, Kira burns herself on the damn thing every time no matter what angle she approaches from and how carefully she grasps the tongs and navigates the bag opening, but that's _fine_, Mr. TurbChef.

“No one's here and we'll be home before it evens hits.”

She takes a big bite.

Kira's mind replays the memory of them baking the blondies—zooms in on the empty container of cannabutter.

The way their kitchen _still_ smells.

She eyes the TurboChef as if this is an episode of Magic School Bus and she can see the scent molecules—nefarious and on their way to get them fired, probably.

Erica extends the blondie out toward her and Kira bites—almost.

“Please go on your break, so I can go on my break, so we can be closer to not being here.”

Her voice strains, the same way her face can barely hold into a smile at the end of the day.

There's half a step still between them and Erica—licking the cinnamon sugar off her lips—closes it, tugs the apron strings looped around Kira's waist.

“Almost home.”

Her voice is soft and Kira wants nothing more than to fall forward into her arms and never leave. It'd be so easy—less than half a step.

Instead, she takes a deep breath.

Smiles.

“Almost home.”

There's a loud banging—hands thudding and slapping against glass.

She shoos Erica out through the kitchen and steps up to the counter to deal with another group of kids looking for a cupcake fix.

.

“So.”

Kira looks up from where she's pretending the counters need to be wiped down a third time.

She raises an eyebrow, watches Erica step back into the bakery's front, “So?”

“I saved you a piece if you want it.”

Kira's already untying her apron—not as enticed by the blondie so much as she is by ten minutes of being by herself in the break room.

“Thanks,” she says, rushing to pull the fucking apron over her head as she walks towards the warm, inviting, kitchen where customers were not allowed.

“Have you seen Tall Cranky Man?”

“Not in like twenty minutes,” Kira says from the sink—scrubbing away at the ink and frosting stained skin of her hands.

She's always thought Tall Not-Here Man was a more fitting title for their supervisor.

“Cool, I'm gonna start putting the espresso shit away.”

Kira mumbles some sort of reply, she thinks, as she speed walks—safety first—to the break room.

.

She eats the last chunk of blondie.

It's fine though, _totally_ fine and like...it's fine.

They're closing in thirty minutes or something.

The rest of her ten minutes is spent eyes closed, head against the wall, and phone quiet in front of her because she decided half-way through her newest meditation app that the man leading the exercise sounded condescending.

The last thing her day needed more of.

.

She's standing in front of the sink once again—wishing it was infused with botanicals or aloe vera or whatever it is commercials say makes your hands not look like shit—when Erica walks up.

“Good break?”

Kira laughs.

“Great, so, here's the thing—there's a zombie.”

“The Seven Loaf man?” Kira grabs a paper towel with a little more force than necessary. “Just tell him we already cleaned the bread slicer.”

“No, Kira, there's like—nevermind just.”

And then Erica's leading her by the hand, out the kitchen and the few feet it takes to step into the front.

Where a super, definitely, real-life, real-dead, zombie like. . ._zombie _is bumbling about_._

“Seriously?”

Her hand goes to her side.

Where she finds an apron pocket, not a katana.

The universe can't even allow her to have her normal, boring, _shitty_ day job.

Erica had put up the closed sign and locked the door early, so at least there weren't any people to worry about.

A quick glance over her shoulder told her the bakers were still on their lunch, so they had time to do _something_, but what?

She looks at Erica—who's leading the zombie around in circles—and gestures wildly.

“How are we going to,” Kira eyes the zombie, shrugging, “_anything_ without getting fired?”

Kira can't seem to move—can't stop thinking of the health code violations.

“Babe, I hate to break it to you,” she says, stopping in her game of follow the leader, “but we're definitely getting fired.”

Erica sticks her foot out, and the zombie goes down.

Right onto the espresso mat.

Kira's eyebrow raises.

“Well, I guess we could—“

.

They roll the zombie up in the mat like a burrito.

It's fine.

Erica's sitting on top of the groaning, wiggling, zombie bundle while they wait for Boyd to show up and tow them back to the apartment—examining her nails like there isn't a zombie head in front of where they keep the almond milk.

The sight almost makes Kira smile.

Boyd raps on the door, confusion on his face as he peers inside the now dark bakery.

“There's our ride, pretty boy,” Erica stands and hefts the zomburitto up into her arms.

They taped its mouth shut.

With the TurboChef tongs.

_Oh my god._

They washed it. _It's fine._

She ducks past Erica to unlock the door.

“Hi, Boyd,” she grins, “Thanks for coming—we have a zombie.”

He stands in the doorway, unmoving, as his eyes go from Erica with the zombie roll over her shoulder to Kira taping a note to counter for their very absent supervisor.

.

<strike>Dear</strike>

<strike>Mr</strike>

<strike>Hey</strike>

Something urgent came up—we couldn't finish closing

If you don't tell anyone we left we won't tell anyone that you? also left?

Either way, we better be getting our tips from today.

Have a nice night!

.

“You're _shitting_ me,” Boyd says, looking thoroughly unsurprised at the chaos that is their lives.

That's probably fair.

She boxes up some of the cupcakes that were supposed to be rotated out tonight.

“We're getting fired,” she answers when she gets looks from both of them—Boyd's curious and Erica's encouraging.

Boyd holds the door open for them as they scurry out—Kira glancing furtively this way and that while the other stroll off the parking lot nearby like the three—four—of them aren't the most suspicious group of assholes to be seen on the quaint street.

“Are either of you going to actually explain what happened?”

Erica hurls the zombie parcel into the back of Boyd's bigass car and shrugs.

“We're gonna be high soon—can't it wait,” she sighs, climbing into the middle front and letting Kira have shotgun.

Kira nods, too tired to make any sort of expression, “It'll be funnier.”

She closes her eyes when she feels Erica take her hand—lets her head fall against the window.

And takes in a deep, restorative, _calm_, breath to the soft—_serene_—fidgeting of a zombie.

Exhales.

Wishes she had eaten more fucking blondie.

**Author's Note:**

> title from 9 to 5 by dolly patron
> 
> please excuse the retail related rage i cold brewed into this fic!!


End file.
